


May I?

by A_Bunn_Tale



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Disturbing Themes, Homelessness, Just lots of bad shit because I like throwing characters through the literal blender c:, M/M, On the Run, Orphans, Rape of a Minor, Stealing, child prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 06:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12811233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Bunn_Tale/pseuds/A_Bunn_Tale
Summary: Matt doesn't keep a diary, but if he did, it would be a recount of just how he had met his best friend, and the years they had lived on the streets, struggling to survive in a cruel world, with only themselves to rely on.  But given that he doesn't keep a diary, this is just a bunch of paper that he has written on, and holds dear to himself, because they contain the precious memories of finding a bright light in an eternal darkness.





	May I?

One doesn’t really know what true cold is until they’ve spent a winter or two out on the streets of England. Honestly, it’s cold as fuck out there, and frostbite was something that lurked out in the open, lacking the decency to at least hide its revolting face. I suppose I can’t blame it though, as it lacks a brain, and my anger is being directed towards a personified image that is ultimately man-made in the first place. Well, that went in a full circle. Good job Matt. Genius you are. 

Anyways, I feel like I’m getting ahead of myself here. An introduction should be made, I assume, but then again, who is going to waste their time reading any of this? It’s just a recollection of sad events told by my limited perspective, as it does indeed take two to tango, and my partner is less than likely to open up about his experiences, much less take the time to write them down on paper, and immortalize them. He wasn’t about that, not one bit. No, Mello preferred to live in the moment, for the past was the past, and the future was undecided. Many things could be done to change the outcome of what lay before us, and he took full advantage of that, but who in their right mind would blame him? He was an illegal immigrant from the Ukraine, accidentally making his way to England in the confines of a cargo ship. He claims he smelled like rotting fish for /weeks/ after the ordeal. I call bullshit, because the smog in England is so thick, you can barely see through it, let alone walk ten feet without the stench clinging to your pores with greedy hands. 

That doesn’t really matter though, does it? I have a habit of rambling on and on, something he finds endearing, I’m sure, though he’ll deny it with everything in his pale, scrawny form. It would be amusing, if it wasn’t for the wild look in his eyes when he feels like he is losing control of the situation. I tend to back down when that happens, because I know better. Well, I know better, and I never want to see him hurting, not in the slightest. I suppose I should give a bit of a back story in regards to that, shouldn’t I? 

He lived on the streets for a few months before I stumbled upon him. He was so thin, wearing dark, ragged clothes. His hair was disgusting, unkempt and greasy, but that was to be expected. His shoes had holes in them, and they were meant for the summer, and winter was rapidly approaching. He had been rummaging through the trashcans at the back of the arcade, and I had only been there by chance; my father had felt merciful that day, giving me a few quarters and sending me on my way. He didn’t want me in his hair, and I understood that. I was the accident of drunk sex, the single swimmer that had gotten to the egg, the one who had hit home when the condom broke. I should have been aborted, that much was obvious, but my mother didn’t have it in her, and so, I was born. I think in her own way, she did love me, and so did my dad, but they certainly had a shitty way of showing it. 

But back to the point; he had been rummaging through the dumpsters, and I had ducked out to the back to sell stolen fags - wait, hold on, I have to call them cigarettes, don’t I? Fucking lame. Anyways, I was selling stolen cigarettes for some extra cash to extend my expedition away from home, when I saw him. I honestly wasn’t sure what smelled worse, the rotting food, or him. My nose scrunched up in obvious disgust, but he paid me no attention. My gaze didn’t linger for long, as the older teens I was selling to had seen me sneak out, and they wanted their fix.  
“Oi, you got them?” 

I nodded, fingers cold as I fumbled for the pack that rest in my pants pocket. Fishing them out, I carefully open the slick plastic that hid them from eager eyes. They were ‘Marlboro’, just as was requested, and if one asked just how I got my hands on these smokes, I would respond that they were my mom’s. She was so busy with her drinking, that she never noticed a pack go missing here and there, and it wasn’t hard to convince her to get something that wasn’t ‘Regal’ when we were out shopping for food. The money my dad gave us for groceries was usually spent on her addictions, but he partook in them too, when he wasn’t working. My dad had a job at a law firm, and he was essentially the glorified errand boy. It sucked, but it paid the bills, and kept a small amount of food in our stomachs. He hated his job, but there was no way that he could afford to go to school, not with an alcoholic wife and a nine year old who’s best grades were a stunning C+, and that was in mathematics. Man, I certainly had the skills to pay the bills, didn’t I? Heh. That was far funnier than it had any right to be, really. Maybe the cold fried my brain cells more than I figured. 

Actually, you know what, this is a really shitty attempt to write about how I met my best friend, and I’ve come to realize that there should be chapters to this little story. If not, it would be a clusterfuck of whatever my hands managed to translate in the shitstorm I call my mind. 

Huh. Would you look at that, Mello is calling for me. He probably wants to bounce his flashcards off me or something.. Great. I’d rather be doing something productive with my time, but I owe him so damn much, that I couldn’t, in my right mind, say no. His dream was to be the next L, after all, and who am I to stand in the way of that, when he’s done so much for me? 

Until next time, I suppose.

P.S. This isn’t a diary. That shit’s for pussies.

**Author's Note:**

> So, because my darling editor mentioned this, I figured I should say that this was meant to be rambly and all over the place. The chapters after this will be in first person, from Matt's point of view, and all I can promise is that my heart hurts writing this, so your heart will likely hurt reading it :) But isn't that the point of fanfiction? It makes us feel those pesky emotions in a short amount of time! Anyways, thanks for checking this out! 
> 
> As per usual, the song that inspired this series. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZlFqz7NnoX4


End file.
